8/2 to 8/11/2003
I Am Allergic to Burning Man (8/11)
Ugh, I'm sitting here, after writing five porn reviews, with my fourth nosebleed in two days. I have just returned from an ill-fated, ill-advised trip to the Black Rock desert (home of the hateful Burning Man festival), and I am definitely allergic to something in the desert dust out there. Which is just fine with me, as I never plan on going there again. Don't get me wrong -- I love the desert and camping. But I don't love allergies and nosebleeds, paying to attend a party that others show up to for free, and no, I have never been to Burning Man and no I don't want to go. No, SRL has never done a show there (though members have taken their personal machines out there). My first encounter with a "burner" was a guy in a bar several years ago who was showing his pictures, photos of naked girls looking very pissed off, and lots of photos of just their tits. When I went to the Exotic Erotic Ball last year I found a disposable camera on the floor and got the film developed the next day, and the pictures were exactly the same. So it's like Exotic Erotic, but in the middle of nowhere and you're trapped for days on end, and you paid a lot of money, and there are a lot of hippies, you're ruining delicate desert ecology with 30,000 mostly amateur partiers, and you can't even shoot guns. Well, my weekend wasn't exactly what I'd call Exotic Erotic in the desert because they were all seasoned partiers and excellent musicians, but I wouldn't call it the "feel good event of the summer" either. Meanwhile, my pal Thomas house-sat for me and wrote erotic stories about cannibals on my computer, and he was used and abused by my 17 lb. cat, who is a huge love slut. (The cat is the slut -- I wouldn't know about Thomas.) I should've stayed at home and answered your mail -- I've been getting tons of email lately and I will answer you soon.
Let me rewind to last Thursday, because it was a wonderful day filled with sexual frustration and the joy that comes when you discover porn that really does the trick. I am a dirty girl. But I am not alone. I know there are others like me -- lots of others. Thursday while working at the Good Vibes store, I surfed porn on my break. That's usually part of my job, but porn on GV time is seldom any kind of porn I'd get off to, and I almost never get turned on at work -- unless I'm working at home, and rarely on Internet porn like I did the other day. Oh, it's bad to admit that I got turned on at work, but spank me, I did.
I am unabashedly bisexual, though men really rev my motor. Mmmm, men -- stubble, broad chests, stiff cocks and hands gripped around them in a fist. I'll bet about a million other straight gals will agree with me, and I often fantasize -- as do other women and oodles of gay men -- about sexy men masturbating. It's a little frustrating that 99.9% of the porn and websites out there show women masturbating in ten million different ways, but few ever show guys. I've long dreamed of role-reversal in porn formula, where in each porn film there is the obligatory male masturbation scene, and why not throw in an obligatory guy-guy scene right along with the typical girl-girl scenes in the formula? Oh, I know why -- because porn only ever assumes a homophobic male audience, and the people who make porn are suffocatingly heterosexual and quite homophobic themselves. But the rest of us kinky straight and bi folks -- and there's a lot of us -- can dare to dream.
I subscribe to Blowfish's email newsletter and in their latest issue one of the writers links to a site that caters to a fetish that I've been asked about by a surprising number of Tiny Nibbles readers: clothed female, nude male. It's called CFNM, and it's where a woman is clothed, sometimes incidentally or sometimes in a way that indicates domination, with a naked man. Think female news reporters and locker rooms, or nurses and a naked male patient. But what I didn't expect to find on this site is one of the things I crave to see more of -- men masturbating for women. (Look for gifs linked to from this page... they're "for the ladies." Uh-huh.) And then I discovered something else just as hot -- a vast, vast site dedicated to pictures of hand jobs. Eh. Wow. C'mere young man, let me objectify you.
So my weekend bombed. But I did have a great conversation with a sexy female trumpet player. She is hot, hot, hot. We stood there in the middle of the desert at sunset in full costume -- hers Marching Band uniform, mine long silver gloves, silver high heels, long silver backless gown and piled-high tomato-red Victorian pincurl wig. Waiting for the first of many long waits to come, we drank beer and huffed whippets (remember junior high?) and talked about sex. She plied me for a list of sex acts I've never tried. I promised her a list in this weblog sometime this week...
A Private Invitation (8/6)
Well, now I can finally talk about it, now that it's been posted on the local community arts resource (and resource for what's happening in the real SF underground nightlife) the Squidlist. Months of hard work and intricate planning has led to an exclusive event, a dinner hosted by the Extra Action Marching Band, catered by SF gypsy restaurant Bistro E Europe, and with a roster of highly skilled musicians and performers, all at different elaborately constructed stages at undisclosed locations in the desert. It's going to be like a crazy Emir Kusturica film meets Fellini, with a heavy dose of sex, alcohol and major costuming. It's a formal dinner party in the middle of nowhwere. I'm on Extra Action's email list, so I got to be one of the first to hear about it, and bought the expensive ticket right away -- $100 to $150, you camp in the desert, and the official starting time is sundown, with the party officially over at sunrise. I've been working extra hard to be able to take time out from book deadlines to go -- and it's exactly the crazy, decadent break I've been dreaming of. The email read like this:
"This is a private and extremely special event and we want to let the people on this list know about it before we publicize it further... Setting Sail from a mystery location in Nevada...just before sunset to sunrise of the following day (should it arrive). Join the crew of La Contessa and Extra Action Marching Band... A High Desert Reinterpretation of Ancient Maritime Legend! La Contessa, The Great White Whale, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Sea Monsters, Treasure, and The Dreaded Sirens of Cocktail Island are all assembling for an epic journey!!!"
I'm so excited I could pee myself, except then there would be a mess. La Contessa is this amazing recreation of an authentic Spanish Galleon built around a bus, and though I haven't seen it in person, looks in pictures to be amazing -- I read about the engineering in an engineering magazine that fetaured it as a cover story, the designer being a cute horn player in the band himself. There's a full deck, crow's nests, a full bar inside, and I heard that the trapeze act will perform in the masts. Also, this local performace artist dude who is kinda funny if not just really quick-witted, Hal Robins will recite the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" while the band plays accompanying music -- meanwhile, the guests are to be ferried from isalnd to island in the desert for a formal dinner party and more performances. Who dreams this stuff up? Who cares -- I readily coughed up the dough, and spent even more on a formal fetish outfit. That evening is promising a meteor shower delivering 60 shooting stars each hour, and all in all, I feel like I'm going to an adult Dinsneyland -- better yet, a trip into my favorite parts of my all-time favorite movie, Black Cat, White Cat. Tonight I might be writing about porn videos that wish they could convey creativity and decadent sexual expression; this weekend I'll be setting sail for La Dolce Vita in all its turbulence, chaos, sweaty sexuality, musical mayhem, loss and redemption, and alcoholic exuberance. I'm bringing lube, a whip, a camera, high heels, stay-put lipstick, a shimmery gown, goggles, instant espresso, and I'm shaving everything, because you never know what might happen out there, alone in the desert with 40+ gorgeous musicians and 100 strangers, at a formal, all-night party...
Other things on my mind: two "new," though not really at all new permutations of male sexual identity now floating around the collective conscious ether. One is the "Down Low" phenomenon, where men of color (primarily African-American) identify as straight but have sex with other men -- it's surprisingly common, HIV is a huge concern, and lots of these guys come from very macho environments -- they keep their activities on the "down low." The other, my personal favorite (though till now they haven't had a name) is the "metrosexual," guys who like women but are so comfy with their sexuality they mix masculine with feminine in their methods of dress, are groomed like gay men, and have associations of all sexual identities. It's like this guy I know -- he dyes his hair, wears nail polish, plays trumpet superbly in several bands around town, wears tight little t-shirts, sometimes wears a skirt/pasties, and always has girlfriends. One time I heard two macho dudes making fun of him, and I let them know that that my friend gets girl action more than any guy I've ever seen -- and unlike the macho guys, he seems to know what to do with all the attention he gets. He wears it like a tailored suit.
Beer for Beeyatches (8/5)
Up late working on an anthology (reading some of the dirtiest short stories I've ever read, by the way -- may have to take a "personal break" soon!). Thomas Roche is also up late working on one of his many anthology or novel projects -- and probably procrastinating in the way we writers do late at night, and is sending me hilarious emails. He read my web log and in response to the below TNN entry, sent:
" These guys need to talk to the TNN marketing execs...."
This, after reading a riveting story where two luscious babes, one married and one single and out for a visit with her old college pal, attack the husband with strap-ons. Beer for women, indeed! Fill 'er (or 'im) up!
Are The Bruises On My Knees Sexy? (8/4)
Sunday was one of the roughest hangovers of my young life and I was unable to do any writing, so I went -- where else? Out to brunch. I went to one of my older standbys in Lower Haight where I knew there would be a table, very hot coffee and soymilk, surly waitstaff (no hangover is complete until you've been dissed by tattooed cashiers) and a tasty breakfast. I went with a very cute boy from the Extra Action Marching Band and he was thrilled to hear about my bachelorette night out with the femme lesbians -- but the stories didn't really begin until we went walking and shopping along the sunny, tourist/hippie/junkie/street musician infested Haight Ashbury -- and trying on a white pair of go-go boots, I accidentally revealed the bruises and broken skin on my knees. Yes, my knees. From being on my knees the night before. Then the memories came flooding back...
Saturday night was a blur of champagne, lingerie, lesbian strippers, silicone dicks, me being on stage way too many times, and a purse (actually I carry a silver Marching Band lunchbox these days) full of butch dykes' phone numbers. I got over to M's house just as the hot sexy lesbian babes were arriving to give M the sendoff she deserved -- and boy, was the crew tasty. Tight dresses, heels, lots of cleavage and lipstick, a butch to run our errands and a magnum of Veuve Clicquot (not may favorite champagne, but a few in those cheesy little wedding cups did the trick). We rushed through the presents so we could get to the club where we hoped there would be enough flesh, strap-on dildos and booze to make it a night. But the presents were a blast -- candy Dick Tax (which ended up on the cake, then later on the stripper's runway), cheesy red and black tiger-striped lingerie, hilarious gay male gift cards, and even a veil -- yes, while lesbians seem unconventional, conventional methods of humiliating the bride-to-be can make a room full of evolved women scream and shriek like teenagers (note that M and a couple of her friends are recent Psych. graduates going into counseling, and work with at-risk youth).
Off to the club -- and let me tell you, while I still haven't had a lap dance (am I a leper?), I know that after the night at Fairy Butch's Cabaret, any strip club I go into will be disappointing. Lesbian strippers -- pros, who likely are "straight for pay" -- pull out all the stops in a club full of other lesbians, dykes and FTM's. No holding back, and goddamn, those women were sexier than any issue of Taboo or Leg Show, homemade porn film, or Richard Kern/Eric Kroll book. I was stunned! As I entered, I realized that fairy Butch cabaret shows are basically big hookup joints for lesbians of all stripes, and the evening's festivities revolve around strippers and making the hookups happen. When we walked in we got stickers with numbers and filled out a form that had multiple-choice options along the lines of "single, cruising, only single tonight, options open, etc." and scales where you could circle what you felt like for sex that night (i.e. top, switch, bottom, with spaces between each). And room for a sentence about yourself. Mine was "I like long contemplative funny emails involving slurping and wood nymphs and squeaky rusty machines and even squeakier toys." With this system, interested suitors could see your number, look up your info and leave you notes, secret-admirer-style.
The show began, but not after the women in our group harassed butches like it was a sport -- no light for a lady? What, were you a butch dyke from the 1980s? It was awesome -- the masculine women were our sexual prey, and it became all too real when later in the evening our femmiest, most buxom member was dragged up on stage to give a birthday dance to a very handsome Latina butch from New York -- who mistakenly told our girl to strip. Out came the reserves (me and M), to force the butch into submission on the stage while we sex danced with each other. This scene repeated itself a few times, later with me on the floor mock-sucking strap-ons (I was drinking lemon drops) and lap dancing (I have no idea how to lap dance and I'm sure everyone knew it) the bride-to-be, who ended up in male drag at one point. Clothes were exchanged, there was a "dating game" style sex dance contest for a blindfolded butch onstage, and more. My favorite point of the evening was sitting next to S, an old friend of mine, and watching a stripper lap dance her way down the seated lines of women. S told me, "I don't really like strippers. I need a connection, you know, some meaning or reason. Bodies are hot, but I'm a massage therapist and see a lot of bodies, so it's got to be something simmering beneath the surface and in the eyes. You know?" I agreed, and a new stripper came out, a very curvy blonde with big nipples that looked like tasty pink gumdrops. S turned to me and said, "I take that back." We laughed and she wandered up to the chairs, dollars in hand.
It was a hell of a night, and amazing to be in such a sexual atmosphere with all those dressed-up women -- though it was trans night, and there were a good number of FTM's and even a few biological men. I watched the bio boys -- two looked a little freaked out and uncomfortable, not like they were threatened, but more like they knew they were out of place. These guys all arrived with queer women -- the doorman doesn't fuck around, especially in the Mission where there typically roving gangs of drunk straight men hassling women (I got harassed by guys both to and from my car that night -- not to worry, I kickbox and was a street fighter in my youth). Two other bio boys seemed to be drinking it all in, honestly amazed and happy to be there and seeing it all. I was, too.
Voting For Flynt and A Lesbian Bachelorette Party (8/2)
I'm really excited about Larry Flynt running for governor -- screw tripling car registration fees and raising taxes, he wants to make money off slot machines. What is taking everyone so long in figuring out how to capitalize on people's willingness to throw their money away? I pondered what it would be like to have Flynt in the gov's mansion last night as I worked on another sex ed book and intermittently traded emails with the Reverse Cowgirl, Dr. Ducky Doolittle and Thomas Roche. Thomas' concise reply to the whole thing was "fuck yeah." I think I'd rather stab a pen in my eye than have another idiotic conservative actor in charge of my precious native state, and how cool to have someone who has faced off in numerous court battles to uphold the First Amendment? Besides, it's awfully fun to see "smut peddler" in newspaper headlines, as if anyone born after 1950 would have either of those archaic terms in their daily usage. Yup, selling naked pictures of consenting adults engaged in sexual acts to consenting adults who want to see them -- this savvy and fearless businessman is surely the type of guy you'd see "peddling smut" on the streetcorner. I'll take a pornographer over someone who makes sexist and ridiculously violent action movies running the state government any day, thank you very much. Besides, I'd vote for anyone who has such clever advertising parodies. Notice that like the media I'm completely discounting the candidates who are career politicians.
I finally made it out of the house without going to Good Vibes for some reason or another, though I sure had fun working my Thursday floor shift. After telling women that female ejaculate isn't pee and helping two lesbians nervously buy their first strap-on, I met up with Carol Queen and Robert Lawrence for drinks down in the San Francisco neighborhood of Hayes Valley. It's a weird little hood, has ritzy restaurants packed in between those famous San Francisco victorians, alongside liquor stores, a drag queen bar or two and a few short blocks from some pretty crime-filled low income housing projects. That's The City for you. We went to this fancy place I'd passed by a million times but never been to called Absinthe, and I'll admit I've mostly avoided it because of the "upscale" atmosphere. But I figured that with Carol and Robert anyplace would be fun, and in fact they said as we were going in, "Yeah, we used to be those cat-hair-covered, odd-looking locals that would wander in and they just kind of tolerated us -- then one day we brought in Nina Hartley!"
It was a fun night out, and they have to be the most entertaining people in the world -- you could never, ever get bored hearing all of their amazing stories, adventures in the sexual underground and teaching sex ed in places as bizarre to imagine as China. Absinthe turned out to be a nice little bar once we were seated at a table and is definitely worth a visit, or a good place to bring out of towners I'd want to impress -- though admittedly, my idea of impressing guests is going to the SRL shop or catching a Marching Band or Extreme Elvis gig, but I'm, er, different. They don't have any real absinthe in there, though I'd really like to try some, so it's almost like false advertising.
Meanwhile my friend Greg Leyh has been named one of the "Smartest People in the Bay Area" by The Wave Magazine -- I have stood next to extreme smartness on several occasions now. Maybe I should rub Greg for luck when next I see him at the SRL shop. The North Beach Jazz Festival is this weekend, and last year I caught it and it was totally awesome -- this year they've got the Rebirth Brass Band in the lineup and I'm really sorry I'll miss 'em -- I have to go to a very mandatory bachelorette party tonight. One of my oldest friends is finally tying the knot with her girlfriend on the 16th, and tonight femme lesbians have traveled to SF from all over to take her out for her last hurrah. It's going to be hell on high heels -- we're meeting at her house, then we're off to a Fairy Butch erotic cabaret night, where there will undoubtedly be lots of drinking, lipstick being smeared, and hopefully lap dances for all, if not the bachelorette. I hope I make it out alive, or at least with my dignity intact -- but then, dignity becomes pretty overrated after a couple of cosmos and being surrounded by beautiful horny lesbians. Report to follow.